


For the Good of the Family

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Tiger, Tiger [13]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon/Original Character pairing, Coming-of-age, Episode 12-What the Little Bird Told Him, Multi, family bonds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:16:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4763042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last she-wolf of Gotham grows her teeth and her claws.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Good of the Family

**Author's Note:**

> Set during Episode 12, "What the Little Bird Told Him". Similar to prior work, basically working the canon plot with some AU elements to change up the flow of things a bit. :)

“ _The Electrocutioner_.” Detective Bullock reads from the newspaper headline, dry tone and unimpressed expression. “Cute. No pressure, Jimbo.”

James, as always, is optimistic. He promises they will capture him, Jack Gruber, the colorfully-named “Electrocutioner” of Gotham, the man responsible for dismantling the brains of at least three Arkham patients, perhaps even more that have yet to be discovered, not including the poor soul following now in his shadow and abiding every command with rarely a thought for his own. Iris supposes she could, in different circumstances, be impressed with Gruber’s methods. She’s not. It took him at least three tries to get it right, because he had to be particular about his technique. And there is very little impressive to her about electrocution as a weapon. Knives are far more elegant; guns certainly far more effective.

“I love the name.” Edward says, looking quite jovial about the whole affair. “It’s catchy. Has drama. The Electro-cutioner.”

Detective Bullock gives him a look, then drags his eyes over to where Iris is leaning against the loft rail. “Where’s your head today, kid?” he asks. “Cause it sure ain’t here with us.”

“My head is right here, Detective.” She answers, still staring across the bull pen with vacant eyes. “It is still resting on my shoulders and has not relocated for any duration of time these past twenty-four hours. Is there some place you prefer it to be?”

She feels his irate glower even if she doesn’t turn and meet it. “How about in these files, finding something useful, before your Pop here and I lose our jobs?”

“If you are incapable of tracking down someone who leaves incredible messy crime scenes and brain-damaged victims,” she says, fingers tightening around the railing, “and is clearly working to achieve a purely ego-driven end goal, very likely in pursuit of revenge for past wrongs committed, then perhaps you do not belong in this job.”

She walks away. It’s dramatic, and it’s rather juvenile, yes, but neither of them—James or Detective Bullock—seem to be at their best lately, and she’s beginning to wonder if they have lost their touch. If she was so inclined, she could easily call Victor and he would find—and deal with—Jack Gruber in under an hour. Perhaps two, if he decides to take his time with it.

Edward joins her, back in the morgue, a few minutes later. He stays silent for exactly two minutes and fourteen seconds, then takes a very intentional step forward, clasps his hands at his front, and tilts his head in exactly the way he always does when he’s about to make an observation.

“Iris, if I may,” and she doesn’t stop him, because he will, even if she tries to stop him or make an offhand comment about _you may not_ , “you certainly don’t seem like your usual intently-focused and relatively-pleasant self. And I, as your friend, am very concerned.”

“I appreciate your concern, Edward.” She answers, and she does, because it’s nice to have someone notice she isn’t herself, and even better to have someone brave what others likely consider a dangerous task and actually ask her about it.

“Will you respond in kind then?” he further inquires, taking a more careful step forward. “And tell me what’s wrong? I’m told that’s what friends do, when they are experiencing a difficult or troubling time in their lives: they tell each other about it. Of course…” his voice drifts, briefly, and he shrugs, trying to look nonchalant but there is an unmistakable look in his eye that she doesn’t miss, “I very possibly am not the best authority on what friends do or don’t do. I don’t seem to have very many.”

There are times like this when she understands him the most, and she feels something that might be akin to an emotional connection. It’s a far cry from what she feels for Victor, of course, because it is hardly romantic. But it resembles what she has often heard described as a _kindred spirit_. Someone who understands her, and she understands him. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does…

“Have you ever had a friend, Edward?” she asks, matching his forward step. “Someone you could completely place your trust in, and felt they would never judge you? Someone whose company you relished and enjoyed above all others? Someone you were practically counting down the hours for, until you could meet them again?”

He blinks, twice, then looks at the floor. “Once. But things happened. People happened.”

“But this person…they were a friend?”

“Yes.” He nods, and the look in his face, the somber look in his eye, tells her this person was most certainly more than a friend, at least to him. “She was.”

She nods; there are more questions than answers, and she could press for them, but she doesn’t. Now simply isn’t the time. “Something is wrong.” She finally answers, after another’s moment of silence. “I have been alone since I stepped through the doors and began the work day. My usual company—yourself excluded, of course—is not present, and for reasons which I do not understand. He used to do this, disappear without warning and for periods of time, but not recently, not since…not as of late.”

There isn’t necessarily a need to deprive Edward of the details, she supposes. He is a grown man, and surely two consenting adults could have a conversation without it becoming awkward. Nevertheless, she doesn’t feel the urge to start divulging personal details. It doesn’t feel like the right time.

“And you were given no prior warning, nor any explanation?” Edward asks, very politely, tilting his head to the other side.

“No.”

“Hmm.” He says, looking genuinely concerned, or at least highly intrigued. “This is indeed a riddle.”

Silence falls between them, again. They should probably be working, or doing something productive, but she’s lost her desire to work and be productive. She hasn’t had it from the moment she walked through the precinct door and reentered this place that no longer feels safe, or like home, or anything in between. This place feels dangerous, like the dragon’s den, like some horrible monster lurking in the shadows and just waiting to swallow her up, so far into the darkness that she can never be found again.

“Well, there is only one logical thing to do.” Edward suddenly declares, the somber expression gone and he looks remarkably cheerful again. “When you have a riddle to solve, sometimes the answer is _here_ and sometimes the answer is _there_. And I’d daresay the answer is not _here_ and therefore, by deductive reasoning, must be there. So, by the process of elimination, you must leave _here_ and go _there_ —wherever _there_ is. I don’t happen to know where _there_ is, but I know you do. And _there_ you must go. And you will solve your riddle. If you want to, of course; I’m quite aware that some people don’t want to go there, because they’re frightened of what they might find.”

“I am not some people.” Iris answers, before bothering to stop and think about what she’s saying and what consequences are about to come about from speaking before she thinks, again.

“Exactly!” Edward nods eagerly, with a swift gesture of elation. “You’re not! And that’s what I love about you, Iris! You solve the riddle, just like me, because you like to solve them and you like to know what other people don’t—”

He stops talking, mouth hanging open mid-sentence, and a rather fetching shade of crimson settles over his cheeks. “I mean…that is… _love_ is a very over-used, often misused word, actually. I don’t…I don’t _love_ you. I don’t dislike you, of course. I mean, we are friends—at least, I consider us friends, and I hope I can take it, from the way you were willing to talk to me today, that you consider us friends as well—but I don’t…I think…well, perhaps in some variation of the word, I could, maybe, at some point, when we get to know each other a little more, a little better…but as of right now—”

“Edward,” she says, stepping forward and catching his face between her palms; he immediately falls mute at the touch, and possibly the look in her eyes, or something else, or all of the above, “thank you. Thank you for listening, and for cheering me up. I believe that, also, is what friends do.”

He looks down, still blushing, chewing on his lower lip. “I’m sure a better friend would be a little more…eloquent about it.”

“Perhaps.” She tilts her head to one side, “Or perhaps we are redefining how friends do and do not do things. I think I prefer the latter option.”

His mouth twitches up a little. “I do as well.” He murmurs, nodding; he looks like a shy school boy, reveling in the praise received as though it is a fine treasure. “And you’re very welcome.”

***

The Falcone manor is very quiet and very dark. The usual staff is not present, only one man in a dark suit standing guard at the door. When she inquires for Don Falcone, she is informed, rather impolitely, that he is currently in a private meeting. She will have to wait. She says she understands, waits until the man is distracted by another guard standing outside on the grounds, and then quickly darts into the darkened halls. If Don Falcone is having a private meeting, it is very likely in the study. And she remembers quite well where his study is.

The doors are closed; she is unsurprised, because _private meeting_ does warrant privacy behind closed doors. She ponders, just for a moment, if she should knock or just wait, or if there is another alternative course of action. Then, choosing the third option, she slowly rests her cheek to the door, listening through wooden barriers. She can faintly hear the crackling of a fire in the hearth, and music playing in the background. Opera. She recognizes the tune quickly.

“Sir?” A voice suddenly breaks the quiet—Victor. He speaks quietly, but in the silence his voice resonates like a bell, even with distance between them. “Let me go to work.”

She bites down on her lower lip when silence follows; silence means her uncle is contemplating, rather than responding. And he shouldn’t be contemplating anything, not when the choice is obvious. Let Victor go. Let him do what he is good at, what he knows how to do. Let him go and find what has been taken—because of the missing staff, she has noticed, quickly, that Liza is among them—and send a message to those responsible.

“No.” Don Falcone says, and she feels the word like a blow to the gut. She doesn’t physically crumple, but it’s a near miss. His tone is so empty, devoid of all character and power and confidence. It doesn’t sound like his voice at all.

“No?” Victor repeats, very slowly and very tightly. She recognizes the tension, can envision it spreading through his limbs and flickering across his face. She hates seeing him that way. Utterly despises it, actually.

“If Fish and the others—and there must be others,” Don Falcone continues, “if they all want me to step down so badly, maybe it’s time. Why not?”

_Why not?_

“Why am I still here, fighting?” he carries on, each word driving something deeper into her core; she can’t breathe, she can barely stand, and her mind is spinning violently. “For what?”

_For what?_ She can barely comprehend this. Where is the man who commanded authority and respect and reverence with only a few words? Where is the man who stands proud and calm in the face of enemies all around him? Where is the man who summons her tiger to take down threats and nuisances and all those who dare threaten him and the family? Where is the man of whom her grandmother spoke with sweet tenderness and devotion in her eyes? Where is her _uncle_?

“For _respect_.” Victor says, voice flexing tightly as he speaks. “You’re Don Carmine Falcone.”

“Respect.” Don Falcone repeats the word as though it is a curse. “Who cares?”

_Who cares?_ She has to lean against the doorframe, lest her body completely crumple like a wet paper doll. This can’t be happening. This absolutely can’t be happening. This is a terrible nightmare. She needs to wake up, and it will be over. She just needs to wake up.

“They all want me to go live in the country with Liza.” He says; she hears him shift, and then lean back against the leather upholstery with a low sigh. “I would like that. That’s what I want too. So why not do it?”

“Please,” Victor’s voice, if possible, tightens and lowers; he’s trying very hard to keep his composure together right now, and it would be admirable if not for the circumstances, “ _don’t_ talk that way, sir.”

She vaguely hears the rest of the conversation, but it’s muffled beneath the blood rushing through her ears and how disoriented she feels right now. She does, however, very clearly hear Don Falcone tell Victor his job, his only job, is to keep his employer and Liza safe. That’s all, nothing more. She hears her tiger placed on a leash, and it’s a very short and very tight leash. It’s a leash that could easily suffocate him, choke him, strangle the life from him before anyone realizes their error.

She pushes herself off the wall and blindly finds her way from the study, up the stairs, and down another hallway. Her body knows where it is taking her, even if her mind is spinning and disoriented and doesn’t know where she’s going or why, and she soon finds herself in the bedroom. Her grandmother’s bedroom. The room where her grandmother spent days and years of her childhood, growing up surrounded by corruption and luxury, darkness and light, the best of both sides to this city. The room where she herself became a woman. Nothing has changed; the linens are fresh and the windows open to allow a pleasant evening breeze, and the portrait of her grandmother, as a much younger woman, still hangs above the vanity.

She stands before this portrait in silence, taking in every last detail with urgent eyes: the elegant upward sweep of thick black waves and the simplicity of a jeweled pin keeping them in place, the graceful lines of her bared throat, the smooth shape of her jaw and the regality of her high cheekbones, the roll of her shoulder and the demure tilt of her head. The eyes looking downward are deep blue, like the ocean depths, framed by dark lashes and matched by red lips. The portrait is very classic in its presentation, and the woman depicted is not only beautiful, but powerful. The Italian rose, chosen by the Russian wolf to be his mate, not only because of her beauty—which, truly, must have been unmatched—but her presence, the way she could command respect with but a look or carefully-chosen word.

She remembers this woman, an older version, with white interrupting the inky mass of hair, lines on her face which are not present in this picture, but never to have old age mistaken for weakness. She remembers this woman entering the manor with authority in every step, dressed in an elegant and utterly one-of-a-kind dress, the kind that mixed Victorian modesty with modern style, dark silk complimenting her pale skin and piercing eyes. She remembers being sought out by those eyes with eagerness and fondness, and the way she was drawn into slender arms without pause and without care. She remembers her father foolishly attempting to refute the embrace, to command the actions of his own mother, and she remembers the way her grandmother had immediately drawn up to her full height and spoken so few words, but her father had crumpled and cowered and left them alone. She remembers being in absolute awe of such power, such grace, such confidence and authority. She remembers wishing she could be half the woman Sylvia DeLaine had been.

“Grandmother,” she whispers, slowly descending to her knees, hands reaching up in imploring gestures, “I am so lost. My world comes together in sweet moments, and then the threads are cut and ripped apart without mercy. I am given control and then it is stolen. I find my place and then lose it. I am…so very lost.”

She feels the tears form and streak slowly down her cheeks. She doesn’t bother to wipe them away. “All I have ever wanted is to please you. To make you and Grandfather proud. To rectify the mistakes and compensate for the embarrassment my father was to your name. I thought, as I grew older, I would become a woman to follow in your steps, and yet I am still a child. Still I am a victim. Still I am regarded as weak and helpless and in need of protection, or an easy mark for manipulation and exploitation. I feel helpless. And I do not know how to change it, any of it. If you were here, with me, I know you would show me the way. Why…” 

The tears fall faster, harder, and she chokes on her next breath. “Why did you have to leave me? Why could you not have stayed, just a little while longer? I know Grandfather was the love of your life, and you could not bear life without him, but… _why_? I need you now, Grandmother, and I do not have you. What am I to do? What _can_ I do?”

She doesn’t expect answers, of course, but even so, the silence is suffocating and presses down around her with immeasurable weight. She falls prostrate to the floor, tears pooling within the carpet, and though she does not sob aloud, she cries and mourns and grieves as she was never permitted. Or, rather, she previously didn’t know how to grieve. When the news came, she received it with a hollow heart and dry eyes. She’d watched her father blink at the news of his mother’s death, and her mother gleefully declare it a day worthy of celebration for them both. If she had even wanted to cry, she certainly wouldn’t have known how, and would have been punished for one single tear.

When the tears begin to dry, her head throbbing with a dull ache and her throat burning with suppressed sobs, she slowly lifts her head back to view the portrait once more. Her grandmother was so very young. In life and in death, she remained young, and yet she was ever a figure of power. Sylvia DeLaine was as much a wolf as her husband, the alpha female alongside the alpha male in their pack. She knew when to be submissive and when to take charge and lead the attack. She knew how to attack, with tooth and claw, with power and control, and deliver such a blow that her victim would never again rise. She knew how to use words as weapons, and how to achieve her goals without violence. She could comfort, intrigue, confuse, and threaten with nothing more than her words.

That is the blood running through her veins. Not Marcus DeLaine—the toothless scavenger and hungering dog—and not Maria, but Sylvia DeLaine. The wolf’s blood courses through her veins and fuels her heart and gives her life. _She_ is a wolf. _She_ is the last she-wolf. And she is not a little pup anymore.

By the time she finds her way back to the study, the doors are open. She ignores the guard who gives her a look, scandalized and offended and something else, and sees Don Falcone and Victor have a third member added to their party. Oswald Cobblepot, looking quite worse for the wear and as though he has suffered through a very long and physically-demanding ordeal, seated on a footstool before the mafia don. He is relaying information, telling a tale of a pretty young girl plucked off the streets by Fish Mooney, trained to seduce and well-versed in the Falcone history, and created to look just like the former matriarch of the family—her great-grandmother, mother to her grandmother and great-uncle. Fish Mooney deliberately and intentionally used her great-grandmother as a weapon.

Cobblepot’s words do not sit well with her uncle; she watches, silent at the doorway, as he leans forward and strikes the smaller man across the face, and demands he prove it.

“How…?” Cobblepot whimpers; she thinks, perhaps, his anxiety might be somewhat genuine, though not completely, because she’s sure he must have expected such a reaction and couldn’t be entirely surprised that his words would warrant a physical strike. “I…I can’t. I just know.”

“You’re wrong.” Don Falcone whispers, but she can already hear the way his voice is breaking and the uncertainty is rising fast. In the silence of his thoughts, she knows, he is going through every moment he spent with Liza, every last second of every moment shared between them over the past months, breaking it apart and searching for proof of his own.

“When have I been _wrong_?” Cobblepot demands, still quivering, but looking less terrified and more desperate, more determined to be proven truthful than deemed a liar. He takes it as a great insult, being called a liar, having it suggested he is mistaken. She understands the feeling all too well.

“You are.” Don Falcone says, but it sounds as though he is trying more to convince himself than state a fact. Now is her chance. It is a foolish move, to announce her presence when she was not invited and such brazen behavior is grounds for punishment, family or not, but this is her only chance. This the hunter’s moment, when the prey is right before her eyes and she is in position. If she doesn’t move now, if she does not strike, her opportunity will pass, her prey will escape, and her world will truly unravel from beneath her feet.

“And what if he is not?” she asks, drawing attention to her presence from the moment she speaks and steps into the study. “What then?”

She comes to stand before him, just off to the side of Cobblepot, because she doesn’t trust the small man to have full access to her back. She has met him before, briefly, weeks prior when he found himself detained—unjustly, he’d declared—within the holding cell at the precinct. He hadn’t spoken to her, hadn't verbally addressed her, but as she’d passed by and their eyes had met for a moment, there had indeed been a connection, of sorts. A connection in his mind, when he’d seen her face, recognized it, and his mind had quickly made a few calculations, based on nothing but the glimpse he had of her in that moment, and she’d fallen into place upon the chessboard that is his mind. She had seen all of it, just by staring into his eyes for a breath of time, and she’d seen the way he had placed her with the other pawns. A little pawn alongside James—though, actually, she thinks James might be placed in a more gracious position on the board. The knight, perhaps.

But she is a pawn, in this man’s mind, and pawns go first in chess, because they are the first to be struck down without mercy. She isn’t about to give him an opportunity to strike, not when she doesn’t know if she’s a pawn to be saved for later or if she’s already outlived her purpose.

“Suppose he is not wrong.” She continues, determined to not break, but to stand strong and calm and resolved, to be the living and breathing reflection of her grandmother’s portrait. “Then it means your right-hand, your most trusted lieutenant, not only betrayed you, seeks to usurp you, eagerly awaits to oust you from your home and your beloved city, but she also used family against you.”

She takes a step forward, eyes never leaving his. He is most certainly surprised to see her, but she isn’t giving him much of a chance to express himself accordingly, and she is rather relieved that he hasn’t cut her off, yet. “She used your mother—my great-grandmother—against you. She turned her sainted memory into a weapon of betrayal. And you will respond by stepping back and disappearing into the shadows?”

Another step, not with aggression, but with conviction. This is the killing blow, proverbially speaking, and she must not miss, must not falter, and must not let go until the last drop of blood has been wrung dry from the throat. “Fish Mooney is not your family, Uncle.” She sees the change, the way his posture shifts and something sparks back to life within his eyes at the title, and knows she has truly hit the mark. “ _I_ am. _I_ am the last of your family, of your blood kin. And she has desecrated the memory of my great-grandmother, cheapened her, and used her against us. _Us_. You and I, Uncle.”

Another step, and this time she drops to her knees before him, hands coming to rest over his and holding fast. “Family is forever. Family is the only thing in this world worth protecting. Not land, not money, not possessions. Family, only family. You defend family with your life, with every last drop of blood in your veins. And for those who threaten or harm or disgrace the family…there is only one punishment.”

Don Falcone stares at her with fire in his eyes. Even when the phone rings and his free hand slowly drifts to answer it, he never looks away from her face. Even when he takes the call and addresses his betrayer, it is with calm words and a steady tone, never a drop of emotion to lend suspicion, and he doesn’t release her hands. When he agrees to meet at Miss Mooney’s club, in an hour, it is with the same voice and he ends the call without further words. And then he falls silence once more, eyes staring deeply into hers, and she returns his gaze, all while praying in silence. Let him see a woman, not a child. Let him see the last of his kin, grown and able. Let him see a wolf, not a wayward pup trying to find her own footing.

“Leave us.” He says, quietly. She thinks to look at Victor, just to see his expression, but she can’t risk breaking the connection right now. She hears Cobblepot’s awkward rising and exit. She barely hears Victor leave. And then they are alone, the study doors drawn closed, the fire crackling in the hearth behind her, casting golden shadows across the room.

“What would you have me do, Iris?” he finally asks, voice just as soft, but not weak. No, there is strength rising once more within his soul, echoed in his words and on his tongue. This is the voice she remembers. This is the man she knows.

“My grandfather upheld law and order in his clan.” She answers, without pause, without blinking or removing her hands from his. “My grandfather made it perfectly clear, only one thing was ever worth protecting. And it was the most precious thing in the world.”

She hasn’t answered the question, she knows, but she sees memories surface in his eyes, and the hand previously holding his brandy settles atop hers. “Did Sylvia tell you how it happened, that I knew Audrey DeLaine was the only man for her?”

She shakes her head. He nods, sighs quietly, and continues, “At the time, he was the new leader of the clan, inheriting land and property and responsibility after his father’s passing. A member of my family was responsible for his father’s death. Someone who had been…very vocal about his desire to wed my sister. I didn’t much care for him, but at the time, there had been no other options.”

He pauses, briefly, with something that resembles a smile tugging at his lips. “It was late; the family was enjoying a post-dinner chat and drinks. And then, we had a visitor.” 

He actually chuckles, and it thrills her to hear it. “I’ll never forget that moment, when I finally had a face to match with Audrey DeLaine’s name. Tall, dark, handsome, and confident. Not cocky, but confident. Enough to enter not only onto enemy territory, but to enter the enemy’s home. Most people would call it a suicide mission. He called it an evening stroll.”

She smiles, just a little, because it does sound like the man she’d seen—that one night, one night only—at her grandmother’s side. Audrey DeLaine, tall and towering even in his advancing age, with stark white hair drawn back smoothly and fastened at the base of his neck with a dark band, dressed in a three-piece suit, dark blue and silver, with his long fingers fitted securely around a sleek black cane. She remembers her eyes immediately drawing to the silver wolf’s head mounted atop his cane, its teeth bared and ears flat, prepared for an attack and ready to make its kill. Some might call it a dramatic flourish; she remembers how he had affectionately referred to it as a warning.

At fifteen years her grandmother’s senior, she remembers stories of how scandalous their marriage would be considered today. Back then, age had barely been a consideration. They were the Russian wolf and the Italian rose, and marriage between them, securing peace between warring clans not out of obligation but genuine love and desire, had been a far greater scandal than fifteen years in age difference.

“He walked in the room.” Don Falcone continues. “He looked at two people first: the man who killed his father, and Sylvia. Your grandmother had looked lovely that night, red dress and our mother’s pearls and a rose in her hair. Audrey didn’t even pause before pulling his gun and putting three bullets in my man, just like that. He then came over to me, and very sincerely apologized for interrupting the evening’s activities, and for making such a mess. But he had been watching for a while, before we even knew he was there. Specifically, he’d been watching Sylvia, and the man had to die—not because he’d killed Audrey’s father, but because he had grabbed Sylvia’s arm earlier that night, and no man was entitled to mishandle such a beautiful woman in that way.”

She lets the story settle deep within her core, the words painting a picture before her eyes of the great Russian wolf, the newly-appointed alpha male in the clan, stalking his prey and watching with eyes sharp in the night, and then delivering death not for revenge but for the sake of his lady’s honor. The woman he’d never met before, but the woman he would very quickly go on to marry and make his alpha female. It doesn’t surprise her, because even in advancing age she had observed these two unlikely lovers gaze within each other’s eyes with the burning desire and adoration that younger couples could scarcely dream of. She remembers realizing, even in those short moments, that this was love. Not her parents’ violent and brutal explosion of tempers and hatred, but hands held close together and shared gazes and, amusingly enough, a bit of physical affection without care for the scandalized horror of their observing son.

“Your grandfather knew how to command his clan.” Don Falcone sighs, staring into the fire once more. “And I…I have lost control over my empire, far more than I initially realized.”

“Even an old alpha wolf can regain his place,” she murmurs, “if he remembers who he is, and why he is here, and what his purpose in life is. When he knows those things about himself, he can command and control those who would otherwise take his throat and assume his place.”

He looks back at her. “What would you have me do?”

Now is her chance. Her true chance. The only chance she will have. _Grandmother, give me wisdom._ She exhales, draws in another breath, and feels the pressure on her chest dissipate. Her mind is clear, her thoughts no longer muddled and tossed in a violent rush of dizzying confusion. _Grandfather, give me strength._ Her heart beats in a steady and confident rhythm. She is not a child. She is a woman. She is a wolf.

“Let Victor take care of them.” She says, eyes fixed fast to his face and never daring to blink or look away, not now, not ever. “Give them to my tiger, and let him be the catalyst that reaffirms your place in this city. You _are_ Don Carmine Falcone, the Roman, the last of his clan. They have mistaken your age for weakness, and they have sought to use something utterly sacred to you—to us—as a weapon of war.”

She shifts just a little closer, hands still securely within his grasp. “You have your own weapon of war, Uncle. And yet you do not use him. You do not use him to his full capacity, because you know who he is and what he is. You are afraid of him.”

It’s a bold accusation, to say the least, but she asked for strength and wisdom and she will not swallow the words back if they are the ones meant to be spoken. The time for sugar-coated gentility has run its course. They are at war. Perhaps, in the grand scheme of things, it is a small war, but it is a war all the same. One cannot afford to mince words.

“I sent him to kill you, Iris.” Don Falcone says, very softly, but he doesn’t look away from her and he isn’t lifting a hand to strike her for a brazen tongue. “He was commanded to make a point to your father, through you. I gave him no limits, no restraints, nothing. You were a child, and he knew it, and he didn’t object. If anything, I think he was eager for it.”

“But he did not kill me.”

“For reasons which I have yet to fully understand.” He says, but without any real edge to his voice. Actually, he sounds tired, again, and weary. “The point remains, Iris, he was going to. He eagerly accepted his task and didn’t care that you were barely thirteen years old. Only you and he know what really happened that night, but tell me this: looking back on that night, remembering everything that happened, why is it _you_ are not afraid of him?”

“I love him.”

She sees the change happen, almost immediately. She sees the way his eyes widen, his brow furrows and lifts and furrows again. She can almost see his mind trying to make sense of it all, and knows now is not the time to stop talking and let him make his own assumptions and reach his own conclusions. She can’t, and she won’t.

“I am in love with him, Uncle.” She continues. “I cannot say when it began, or even during what moment he stole my heart without even knowing, but it has indeed begun. When James put me on the train out of Gotham, to escape this place and start a new life away from all war and corruption and ugliness and my past and everything in between, I stood on that train, listened to the whistle, and knew I was going to have a second chance in a new place. I knew I could change my name, live out my days free of my family, meet a good, kind-hearted man and marry him and have his children and live in a beautiful house and lead a wonderful life, and no one would ever suspect who I once was. And that was the moment I realized it. It was not a pleasant truth to consider, because I do know who and what he is, but I also knew, in that moment, if I left him, I would slowly die, bit by bit, day by day, for the rest of my life, because I love Victor and life without him in it means nothing to me.”

His hands are quivering a little within her grasp, but the look on his face is the farthest thing from anger, or fear, or disgust. He’s looking at her as though he has never seen her before. And, truly, he hasn’t. Not until now. He is no longer seeing a child, a victim, or a poor battered soul abused and assaulted by this city. She can see it in his eyes. He’s seeing Sylvia DeLaine, and her passionate, urgent, unbreakable love for her husband. The kind of love that took her, far too young, far before her time, because when he died, she died with him.

Don Falcone sets the brandy glass aside and slowly stands. His hands take hers and bring her with him, upright and to her feet. In equal silence, he releases her hands, brings her into his arms, and kisses her forehead. For the first time, she feels the kind of embrace her grandparents once bestowed upon her. The embrace of family, not strangers, with tender hands and gentle lips. It is a sweet and wondrous thing.

She follows him in respectful silence outside the study, across the hall, and into a small library. Mr. Cobblepot is pacing, as best he can with his damaged limb, looking flustered and a bit agitated, but the moment he sees her uncle enter the room, he stands at attention and his expression becomes that of a humble servant. Victor is standing, perfectly still, near the window, gazing outside with his arms folded over his chest and eyes unblinking. She suspects he is looking beyond the scenery, lost in his thoughts. She wonders if he is still thinking about last night, the confession she made, and what it means for them now.

“Victor,” Don Falcone says, and she closes her eyes with a soft sigh of pure relief; his voice is sharp once again, composed, deliberate, and with authority. This is her uncle. This is the man she knows, the man she can respect and follow without question.

Victor’s attention is quickly regained at the sound of his name; Cobblepot looks rather put-out to be ignored, but no one is paying him much mind. Don Falcone takes two steps forward, eyes steady and jaw set. She can see Victor’s eyes as he notes the change, and the tension fades away. He even takes a step forward to match the don’s, and there is a ripple of eagerness creeping across his features. She knows her uncle must see it, and this time, he doesn’t shy away from it.

“We have work to do.”

***

He watches, with rapt attention, as Don Falcone’s hands close around Liza’s throat and begin to choke the life from her. Part of him is a little disappointed, because she was such a pretty thing and he could have had so much fun with her. The rest of him dismisses the loss, because he’s already enjoyed himself tonight, dealing with the guards stationed around the back who never saw him coming and likewise never anticipated the swiftness of their execution. Six of them, one after the other. It feels good to have his pound of flesh without limitations and a leash around his neck.

Liza does make a lovely corpse, at least: the bruises on her neck are hidden by golden-brown curls, and she looks at peace, as though she’s sleeping. The flower dropped near her hand is a perfect touch, a gentle tossing of dirt within the grave, a parting gift atop the coffin. He drinks in the image for a long, long moment, with great relish. The only thing missing is Iris. She should see her great-grandmother’s memory restored to its rightful sanctity. 

“Don’t bother yelling for help.” Don Falcone says, blunt and cold. “All your people are dead.”

“Carmine,” Fish pleads, voice quivering just a bit, “you have to un—”

She never gets the rest of the word out; Don Falcone comes closer and she’s smart enough to know this is not the time to keep blabbering. There is fire in the elder’s eyes. It is a great relief to see it again.

“I can forgive all kinds of betrayal and dishonesty.” Don Falcone whispers, looking her square in the eye without a blink and without a hint of mercy or forgiveness. “But my mother? How _dare_ you use my sainted mother against me?”

The vicious edge to his voice makes Fish quiver, even just slightly, and makes Victor discretely lick his lips. “That’s _wrong_ , and you’ll suffer for it.”

“I need you to—” she tries again, but Don Falcone holds up one hand in a pointed gesture and she falls silent once more.

“You used my mother against me.” He repeats, very slowly and with subarctic fury lacing every word. “What more do you need me to understand, Fish?”

There is no answer to that. Don Falcone exhales sharply, eyes piercing in their gaze, and takes a very deliberate step back. “You used family as a weapon, my dear.” There is no affection or cordiality to the term of endearment; if anything, it sounds like a mocking insult. “My family is sacred. Pure. A precious treasure to be protected and kept from harm’s way.”

Something has changed, abruptly, in the way the mafia don is speaking. It’s enough to catch Victor’s attention and hold it very tightly, in an iron vice grip. There’s something off. Or, maybe not _off_ , but definitely changed. Something is going on. Something Don Falcone didn’t tell them before departing for this evening’s activities.

“There was a time you were the smart one in the family, Fish.” Falcone continues. “The one I thought I could trust with my life. And I do thank you for opening my eyes, because now I see the truth. I see people for who and what they are. Thank you for that.”

Fish looks equally confused, and on edge. This entire evening just got put on a kilter, and only Don Falcone seems to know which way it’s going to turn and tilt before this is all over. Victor personally savors the unpredictability of it. It reminds him of Iris, in very pleasant ways. He really wishes she’d come along, but Don Falcone was quite against it. He has stepped into his role as her great-uncle, the last paternal figure in her life, and he is quite protective. It’s endearing enough, and far easier to stomach than Gordon’s forced fatherhood. To see Don Falcone ask Iris, with great affection and a gentle touch to her cheek, to return back to the apartment she shares with Gordon and stay there until it’s all over, because Gotham needs her and he needs her, and he can’t bear the thought of her being placed unnecessarily in harm’s way, is far better a sight. At the very least, it doesn’t fill him with the urge to swallow a handful of bullets.

“I was advised, earlier tonight,” the elder says, “there is only one member of the family fit to handle your punishment. You, my dear, and your young man.” He nods at Gilzean briefly before looking back, not at Fish, but over her shoulder. “And I was given absolute assurance that he would not fail me.”

Him. Don Falcone is looking at _him_. And there is no hesitation in his gaze, or the unspoken fear of just what he might be unleashing, or a slight undercurrent of regret and remorse—all of which has previously been present. No, there is none of that. His gaze is confident and calm, and it’s all for Victor.

He feels violently dizzy, intoxicated by the sheer reality suddenly brought to the forefront. Don Falcone is presenting him with Butch Gilzean and Fish Mooney, practically on a silver platter. Don Falcone has delivered them both into the monster’s claws, into the open hands of the freak and the oddity, the one they have never before respected or regarded with any real consideration. He has been given them, both of them. All to himself. They belong to him now. They are _all_ his.

***

“I don’t want to throw Gilzean away.” Don Falcone tells him, when they are both outside, alone, while Penguin says his farewells and makes his parting comments to Fish. “He might be useful. Keep him breathing. As for Fish…well, I don’t think I need to elaborate further, do I?”

“No, sir.”

Falcone nods, draws in a slow breath of the cold night air, and then releases it. “Jim is back. He’s been fully reinstated as a detective. It would stand to say, Iris is no longer unprotected.”

He feels his stomach clench unpleasantly. _No._ No, not now. He’s been given something wonderful and lovely and perfect tonight. Don’t ruin it. He’s in an incredibly good mood right now. _Please_ don’t ruin it.

“She is also a grown woman.” Don Falcone continues, staring up at the dark sky. “And she’s a woman in love. I’d hate to be the one responsible for separating her from the one she loves. Especially when she clearly has such faith in him. Faith enough to give him certain opportunities that he might otherwise not have been given. Many men would die to have a woman like that, loving and trusting them in such a way.”

Victor had been staring across the street, but the feel of his employer’s gaze on him warrants renewed attention. His mind is still trying to make sense of all of this, of what it means, of how he’s been taken off the leash and released from his cage, and how Iris…

“And if I were such a man,” Falcone finishes, adjusting his coat and releasing a content sigh, “I would never leave her side again. But,” he shrugs, stepping off the sidewalk with a note of finality, “those are just the romantic musings of an old man. Goodnight, Victor.”

“Goodnight, sir.” He says, very quietly. And yes, indeed, it is a very, very good night.

***

The apartment complex is very quiet; he can still hear signs of life, here and there, but no one happens to poke their head outside the door and look around for anything suspicious. And he would not appear suspicious. He walks through the hall calmly and with ease, as though he truly belongs here and not as a stranger of who people should be wary. There are actually quite a few people in this city who don’t find him initially frightening, who see him and thinking nothing of it. It makes his work much easier when the prey doesn’t see him coming.

The door is locked, but that means nothing. He would hardly be a worthy employee if a little thing like locked doors kept him from a task. His preferred method of entry is a bullet, but that would make a scene. He decides to select the elegant method instead and picks the lock.

He’s not quite sure what he was expecting to find inside; the hour is very late, so perhaps he was thinking Gordon would be home and all hell would break loose and he’d have quite a bit of explaining to do come morning. But there is no gun and there is no badge on the door-side table, and no sound of movement around the corner. The apartment is well-lit, and a tender aria is filling the room from an old record player along the far wall. He can’t help but smile, just a bit, at the vintage touch to a place otherwise devoid of real character and personality. He knows Gordon was not the responsible party for putting it in here; the rest of this apartment is lacking tasteful décor, which tells him plenty as to who was the main decorator around here.

“I see you have not yet grasped the concept of knocking, my tiger.” Iris says, appearing at the loft rail, dressed very casually in cotton pants and an overlarge sweater, hair braided loosely and draped over one shoulder. He’s rarely seen her this way, but he likes the image, very much. She looks incredibly at-ease, comfortable, and despite the sassy tone, her lips have a small smile playing across them. “Or do you believe now that I would refuse you entry, should you be a gentleman about announcing yourself?”

“If you would stay with me, this wouldn’t even be a topic of conversation, my dearest.” He notes, continuing forward and ascending the stairs to join her. “Have you already grown tired of me as your host?”

“Never.” She answers, stepping from the rail and, curiously enough, making a point of coming very, very close, fingertips grazing his shirt front, before continuing onward. “I have something for you.”

“A gift?” he inquires, the gracious tone quite overdone and dramatic, yes, but he’s in a good mood and not above playing for effect. “Iris, you shouldn’t have. Not when I have nothing to give in return.”

She smiles—or is that a smirk? Sometimes he really can’t tell—but says nothing while collecting a long and rather thin box from her nightstand. He takes a careful look, eyes running over the dark polished wood, while she’s descending to her mattress and running fingers across the front to the small gold latch. She catches it with one finger, pulls up, and he momentarily forgets how to breathe. Or, really, why it’s even important to breathe right now.

Knives. Not little pocket knives, not switch blades, not box cutters, but _knives_. Practically daggers, with their long and sleek metal blades, gleaming in the light, and black hilts, each of them with a distinct emblem at the base. When he steps closer, he can make out the details: it’s a wolf head, eyes sharp and teeth bared for an attack, etched in crimson. Were he a superstitious man, he might even believe the color is the blood of those who have previously met their end at the point of these blades, permanently adhered to that which took their lives.

He reaches out for one—largest of the seven, each one encased within crimson velvet—with quivering fingertips. When he touches cool metal, his nerves tingle and every cell in his hand thrums with excitement and he barely swallows back a low moan. _Exquisite._ Every last detail, exquisite. Each one of different blade—some smooth, some serrated; there’s one with a distinctly arched shape that he’s just dying to play with—and varying sizes, from the largest to the smallest, which has a blade no thicker than a syringe needle.

Iris’ hand slips beneath his jaw, cupping in her palm and stroking with fingertips. He doesn’t even pause before nuzzling into her skin, into her touch, and purring low with immense satisfaction. She smiles, applying the slightest pressure of her nails, and his next purr rumbles up from the depths of his chest.

“You have already taken back your teeth, my love.” She whispers. “Now, take back your claws.”


End file.
